nine to live

on the job

we laugh and laugh and laugh

telling jokes about each others’ lives

their wives their coffee their food

their children who always are a sloppy combination

of the three

their early childhood

their aimless ambitions

their fucking fantasies

their cars which look more or less the same

their troubles which aren’t so different than yesterday’s

their solutions which are the same as the rest of the sludge

their pains their seriousness their frigidness

their relaxation their homesickness their liveliness

anything but their job

for otherwise

we’d yell and yell and yell

a single note that reminded one of a baby being clubbed

or perhaps all the babies being clubbed at once

until either we go

or this building this work this life

does

due to a noise complaint

or a slow murder that takes

too many years to count

five o clock moons

with

nothing to laugh at

at home